Mine
by Rhymed
Summary: Sannel should not be a dragonrider. That's why she's sitting in the tiers, rather than wincing on the hot, arid sands. It's a pity that hatchlings tend to ignore such helpful distinctions.
1. Beginnings

_Disclaimer_: I would like to aspire to such talent as Anne McCaffrey, but as of yet I have not become the able woman she has, and am not likely to. I follow my own road, but in dabbling in her world I'd like to say that I practise. =)

* * *

_Thou should turn back  
Fool rider  
Who dares to Impress gold_

_Thou should retreat  
Fool rider  
Back to thy curséd Hold_

---  
I  
---

Sannel waded through the choking heat in a dress that didn't fit. Usually, this wouldn't have bothered her, as Tillek (which was home now, she reminded herself severely) was as empty of visitors as it was of cheer, but the too-small robe clung to her damp body as she shuffled forward behind her uncle. The Hold where she lived was nestled into the cliffs near the western Ocean, and this oppressive heat was utterly foreign to her, accustomed as she was to the Hold's brisk winds and cold winters. She twitched the sleeves in an effort to pull them over her long limbs, but caught the irritated glance Ranrel sent her, and subsided.

It wouldn't do to put the Lord Holder in a bad mood, not when he might yet allow her to attend the feast after the Hatching. Darrin had promised to teach her a proper jig, which he'd learnt (apparently) in the three Turns since he'd been sent to foster at Igen. Oh, how Sannel missed that rogue: the easy-mannered, grave brother whom she enjoyed such a rapport with, despite the fact that she was just a girl child.

On reflection, Darrin was unlikely to keep to his word in this case, she decided. The stone benches were padded with cushions for Lord Holder Ranrel and those in his purview, and she was grateful for it as she looked to the sands. From here in the lowest tiers, San didn't even have to squint to see tall, quiet Darrin, his earnest gaze locked onto the clutch of eggs. Despite their uncle's misgivings, he had been allowed to stand as candidate when he was Searched, but Ranrel was not pleased. Darrin had been due to return to Tillek this year, to learn Holding under their uncle in place of the heir Helana had never borne him. And as the young Hold girl believed her brother capable of anything, she didn't doubt he would be far too busy with his new dragon (which would be bronze, of course) to pay any attention to the little sister who had Turned fourteen only that autumn.

She shifted slightly in her heavy dress, and wondered anew where Ranrel's firelizard, Drosk, had perched himself. The little blue was utterly devoted to his stern master (although San couldn't for the life of her see _why_), but he was friendly enough with Ranrel's niece that she missed his saucy ways. Briefly, San wondered which ledge he was sunning himself on, or whether he, too, was assembled for the occasion. She caught a flash of blue above their heads, and felt her lips quirk into a smile. So, the little flit was as curious she was.

Ranrel shot her a warning look, and only then did San realise that her disobedient feet were tapping against the bench. She desisted, and abruptly understood why her uncle's expression had been quite so stern. There was a thrumming in the soles of her feet. Startled, San glanced around the Hatching sands to see more dragons than she'd ever witnessed in her life, all turned to the luminous assembly of eggs on the Sands. Their throats were trembling with sound, eyes gleaming a whorl of different shades as they gave voice to the resonating hum that heralded Hatching.

It was a legendary sound, older than the first Egg hatched by the colonists, if AIVAS was to be believed, but it was something that San could not hear – or at least not well. It was like a far-off buzzing in her ears, and San resisted the urge to shake her tousled head. But at least this way, the voices in her head were silent. After all, she thought darkly, no one would fault Ranrel's disownment of her if she admitted to "hearing" voices. It only made it worse that she had not heard their like before her arrival at the Weyr – and if she spoilt her only brother's Impression, she would never forgive herself. Voices were from Before, and she would never hear another again.

Any glances Darrin could have spared for her were now at an end, his attention now solely focussed on the rocking eggs before him. As the first dragonet exploded from its shell, she wished desperately that she could hear its frenzied creel, and felt despair engulf her. Her brother, the only individual on all of Pern who had bothered to communicate with her, to help her construct a language composed completely of gestures - would be gone so soon. No one else had bothered. She was proficient enough at watching the shape of others' mouths to understand their orders, and if the meaning escaped her, a sharp push in the direction they wanted her to go in was eloquent enough. She would be lost, once more, in this silent, all-encompassing world.

The Hatching continued. Smudges of colour wrestled their way from the egg, before powdering the remnants to dust. San traced the obvious delight on the candidates' faces with a gaze approaching that of a starving man. What she would give to hear their proud words, proclaiming their lifemate's name! A pang of bitterness resounded in her chest, but she choked it down, unable to look away from the Hatching. The vibrant shades of the hatchlings' hides were muted by egg-damp, but as the sun continued its merciless way across the sky, drying wings were being stretched clumsily, and the sands were choked with deep sapphire, bright emerald, rusty brown, dazzling bronze... and as of yet, no gleam of gold.

In fact, the jealously guarded egg had not wobbled once. Despite its evident hardness, there had been nary a tremor from this reluctant queen. Restlessness stirred in the crowds, and those who had not yet Impressed gathered closer, their hope tangible as they regarded it. And then - the slightest tremble shivered across the egg's hard surface, beginning to crack in slow, jagged segments. The young queen was certainly taking her precious time about it, San noted dryly, her own troubles forgotten in the momentousness of what was occurring. An indignant tone inserted itself into her consciousness.

_Well, I __**am**__ Vorlith, the new queen of Igen. They've been waiting for me._

_Not all of them, _San replied acerbically, startled into answering. _It would be quite difficult if you Impressed __**all**__ the candidates on the sands._

_No, just you, _came the cheerful rejoinder, although it was twisted by a wistful note. _And you're not __**on**_ _the sands. Where are you? _Some_thing _was lurking in her mind, using her eyes, and she felt a pang of dismay that wasn't her own. _You're all the way up __**there**__? Why didn't you stand in front of my egg like all the others? _

San was stunned. She was still staring, mouth stupidly agape, as the egg shards were flicked forcefully away from a large, wet body, and Vorlith stepped proudly forth, her whirling purple eyes flashing frantically around the masses of milling people and beginning to turn amber. _Where are you? I can't see you! _She lurched forward, but her claws became tangled with her wings, and she lost her balance. The candidates inched forward eagerly, and she gave a shriek, its mental echo grating against San's mind. Her dam, Baylith, reared up protectively behind her golden daughter, refusing to acknowledge her rider's urgent orders to back away. The approaching candidates came to an abrupt halt. The little gold hatchling's mindshade was becoming hysterical, and she gave a wordless, awful scream as she continued to seek the girl.

As Vorlith's head slanted upwards towards the sunlit sands, San felt another flash of sudden pain across her eyes. She almost raised a hand to her face, but realised disjointedly that it wasn't her own discomfort at the same time as she knew there was something wrong with her queen. _Her _queen_. _Who was hurting her lifemate? Who _dared_? She didn't remember rising to her feet, suddenly determined, stumbling towards the steps. She sent a shaft of love and reassurance towards that precious, gleaming body, yelling incoherent platitudes in her mind. _It's going to be alright, love, I'm coming – Vorlith, I'm coming!_

Abruptly, there were hands on her arms, pulling her back. It was Ranrel, his face rigid with anger at her movement in the midst of such uproar, holding her in an iron grip. Frantically, San struggled against him, gesturing wildly with her fingers, and then remembered that he couldn't understand. Although she couldn't hear, she made her mouth form the word and flung it towards him with all her might. "NO!" She lurched away from him, and in a moment San was racing down the stone steps towards the flickering heat of the sands.

_Where? __**Where **__are you? _Vorlith continued to cry, although her tightly shut eyes were turned towards the young girl. Dimly, San sensed that it hurt less that way. As though she sensed her lifemate's presence, she began to sway towards San's awkward figure, stretching her head forward with an oddly lost look. They met in a tangle of limbs and flesh, San doing her best to avoid Vorlith's flailing talons as she gathered the precious dragon to herself. San's breath came in hoarse, grateful gasps, but the completion she felt at just holding this other half of her was absolute.

_I'm here, love, it's alright, it's fine. _Vorlith buried her large head into San's abdomen, and despite her pain and overwhelming hunger, snorted comically at the stiff material. San choked back a laugh at her lifemate's estimation of her apparel. She knew there was something expected, something important, although it escaped her. She could barely think, struggling to comprehend a feeling of pain that wasn't hers, yet was, because her lifemate, her soul, was _hurting _– and then she was seeking the shadows at the edges of the Hatching sands, motioning towards the helpers frantically, hating her inability to communicate with them. Her raw, incomprehensible cries brought aid quickly, though, and they were ushered into the shade.

It took a moment for San to realise that her dragon's thoughts were now tinged only with hunger – a hunger that was deep and instinctual and urgent, but _not_ pain – and then, her hands were busy with offering thick pieces of raw meat to those open jaws. Distracted once more from her own urge to tell those gathered here that this was _her _dragon, that Vorlith had spoken to _her, _Sannel was missing an array of expressions whose variety was rich in nuance. Surprise, anger, indignation – but many were amused at this girl who had seemingly been so caught up in Impression that she had borne her lifemate from the sands before telling anyone the dragon's name. However, those bonded to dragons were sharing in confusion at the way that Baylith's rage at her daughter's pain had so quickly subsided. Nadira was at her lifemate's side, evidently questioning her as she leant her head against the golden neck.

_The light was hurting her. _Baylith's unfathomable answer didn't do much to assuage her rider's curiosity, and the weyrwoman of Ista regarded the pair frankly. The new rider was kneeling awkwardly as she struggled to keep up with her dragon's voracious appetite, but the glowing look on her features gave her plain face a rather different appearance. Yes, they had certainly Impressed. Nadira took a moment to gauge this new weyrling, noting her frizzy red hair and pale, freckled skin. Certainly an odd-looking person, and too long and lanky to wear the dark blue dress that she was clad in well.

A voice hailed her, and she turned pensively to see a man dressed in the soft blue garb of the Fishcraft Hall at Tillek. He apologised profusely, gesturing towards the euphoric pair on the edge of the sands and gabbling about how unsuitable Sannel – was _that _her name? – was and how deeply my Lord Holder regretted this incidence. He gestured towards a man whose tanned face was pinched white with anxiety and whose resplendent apparel proclaimed him the Holder in question. His thin mouth was pressed firmly closed. It was a few moments before Nadira was able to comprehend that somehow her new queenrider was just _wrong_, in some way. But why? The weyrwoman made an abrupt movement for the journeyman to stop talking.

"Dorcas, what _are_ you trying to say?" He was the son of an Igen bronzerider, she recalled quickly, fostered out to a Hold several years ago to learn a Craft. The young man shot her a sheepish look, but didn't abate his urgent speech.

"Weyrwoman," he repeated respectfully, "Sannel is my Lord Holder's niece." Nadira quirked an eyebrow.

"Did you want compensation, journeyman?" she asked, her tone dry. "You'll have none from me. Impression is a compliment to his guardianship skills, you may tell him that." Privately, she thought that fishing had done much for his confidence, but not for his intelligence. Such politics were of no interest to her, and he should remember that.

"I –" He swallowed visibly. "We do not seek – reparation, weyrwoman. I am trying to prevent such a necessity being demanded of _us_." That caught her attention, and a low rumble behind her gave her notice that Baylith was now interested. Dorcas saw her sharp gaze and lowered his own in response. He seemed tongue-tied now, unable to give voice to the source of his anxiety. Nadira was by no means a patient woman, and she clicked her tongue against her teeth.

"Dorcas-" Her voice was tightly controlled, but the journeyman evidently remembered its like from his mischievous days as a youngster here in the weyr. His reaction was automatic.

"Sannel is deaf, Nadira." From his stricken look, it was evident that he had not meant to say it so plainly. For a moment, the senior queenrider of Igen believed her _own _hearing to be faulty. Sannel couldn't possibly be. Surely a dragon would not… Her eyes turned to the pair, searching for any visible defects, as though there should be some physical manifestation of her disability. The girl was laughing, a bubble of joyful sound that surely shouldn't be possible. Her face was alight, and her dragon's expression was a blissful blend of purple and blue. And yet, even as Nadira watched, a tall figure tending a large brown locked eyes on the girl and gasped in a low, hollow voice – "_No, _San_._"

She saw him. The tall girl staggered to her feet, and the two stared at one another. She made a hesitant gesture, to which the young man shook his head violently. His return motions were harsh and blunt. It was evidently a communication of some kind, for the girl – Sannel – reeled suddenly, as if from a blow. She moved towards him, but he backed away, his gaze dark with grief and regretful. His own dragon followed him as he turned his back and made his way from the Hatching grounds. Nadira watched, stunned, as the girl's lanky figure wavered and Vorlith interposed herself neatly beneath her rider's arm as she groped for support. The weyrling's face was ashen and her eyes were haunted, and as she turned from the arena herself her motions were slow and numb.

Nadira swallowed, a shadow creeping across her as she accepted the veracity of Dorcas' words. It was true, then. The new queenrider of Igen was deaf.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, I've tried to express the confusion and inability to multitask that I'm pretty sure would happen with Impression, but even though I've rewritten this numerous times, I'm still not content with it. If I don't post this however, I'll never be able to give you a second chapter, and as my muse is being pretty chatty right now, I think I'll be a good girl and obey her. Please give me your honest opinions, and don't be wary of my feelings. I can take concrit.

I researched the names and canon-characters as well as I could, but my reference to AIVAS is somewhat oblique due to the fact that I don't want it to feature heavily in this story. I don't _yet _know enough about it to write well enough. Just thought I should mention that. Hope you enjoyed this first chapter!


	2. Bonds

Let me just take a moment to disclaim Anne McCaffrey's work.

Disclaimer: I disclaim. =)

Ahem. To be serious though – I disclaim any claim to the aforementioned claimant's work due to my non-inclusion with the object of claimancy (the literary works of Pern). T'were it mine to claim, I'd be decidedly richer, far older, and American. I'm a student (therefore poor and also young), and British (we spell things the _right _way). =P Just kidding.

* * *

_Harper, sing to me of another life,  
A tale that beats to some other drum  
Let not the pain, the joy, the strife__  
Fade from thy fingers or thy thumbs_

_Let weyrmen stamp for the rhythm,__  
Let thy own harp ring forth the tune.  
See how our friends wing to the sill  
And softly, lightly, brightly croon._

_Harper, sing to a different drum:__  
Beat it strongly, sound it true.  
__Weave a tale of life's past singers,  
That is only told by men in Blue._

----  
II  
----

Feasting in the weyr was a serious business. Since dawn of the Hatching, Palma had presided over the kitchens of Igen Weyr with her usual grim fortitude, and under her rule, the activity of those worthy cooks flourished. The rich aromas of her famous stews and soups enticed more than one cheeky weyrling to try his luck at wheedling a small portion before the evening's feast, but most settled on a quick retreat nursing their stinging posteriors. Palma might be a devoted fosterer with time for even the most exasperating of those in her care, but she was surprisingly agile with her ladle, and more than one lazy drudge quickened his step when she cared to observe his work.

Palma's zeal for good husbandry was matched only by her fierce observance of providing for weyrlings first. Before the spits were turning, or ladles spooning the thick gravy for her excellent self to sample, the drudges were set to chopping raw meat into bitesized goblets for the hatchlings that would be making their entrance around noon. As the last of the huge bowls was carted to the antechamber just off of the arena, there to wait in the cool of the stone room, a low, resonating note wormed its way into the kitchens. Palma froze, and then forced herself into action, harrying cooks and underlings, and speeding the sluggish drudges on their way. She urged them to hurry, to make haste, threatening dire consequences where encouragement did not work.

The headwoman's sharp gaze was quick to notice the small, wiry body standing still by the door. The drudge's eyes were glazed, and his thin hands were trembling slightly. Palma, whose customary ladle had been abandoned for a broad leaf with which to fan herself, quite sympathised. Obviously the poor thing had been working too hard. Heat like this did not encourage busy industry. She turned back to the others, deciding to allow him a few moments' grace before tanning his scrawny backside.

There was a commotion behind her. With a sudden, jerky movement the drudge dropped his burden and began to sprint the corridors up towards the sands, leaving the heavy bucket of grain pooling on the flagstones. Palma made an impatient noise, and cursed herself. Give them an inch, and they took it a clik. Trust her wits to become addled in this heat.

She snorted, and set a worker to clearing the mess, and then began to tell another to catch the drudge. He would feel the effects of his infraction alright. It occurred to her that it would be more provident to catch the culprit herself, and with a flicker of her fingers, motioned that her messenger should instead clean the batch of tubers that had just come in. Yes, Palma thought as she walked through the empty passages, it was a good plan. She would inspect the meat while she was at it, and possibly catch a glimpse of the sands before retreating to her domain, which was far cooler despite its hot ovens.

The lad was leaning against the wall just outside of the arena, his eyes flicking around the hatchlings. Was he searching for something? A pang of wistfulness echoed in Palma's chest. She had missed her chance, all those years ago, when presented as candidate on the stands. Too late for that now; she'd Turned thirty-seven this season. Shots of grey wove through the sensible bun she wore her hair in, and there was no denying that kitchen duties kept her busy, if not content. She marched towards the lad with a glint in her eye, determined to send him back to the cellars with nothing more than lifting and carrying for the rest of the month, if she had anything to do with it. Palma got no further than the entrance to the sands before a large _something_ bowled her over, driving the breath from her in an accelerated _whoosh._

She landed on her back, her startled gaze meeting that of not something, but some_one_. A bony head shoved itself into her vision and nudged her with his dazzling nose. _I'm Keth, _he said gleefully, and she caught his smugness at how easy she was to pin. _And I'm hungry. _She struggled to sit up, and he tumbled over onto his backside, his claws becoming tangled in his wings. His indignant snort made her bite back a choke of laughter, but already she was responding to his discomfort as though it were second nature. _It should be,_ Keth put in quickly. _You're mine and I'm yours and can I have some meat now? _

They made an odd pair, the tiny, middle-aged woman and the bony blue, but there was no denying that Palma's hands lingered on her lifemate's nose more often than she shovelled food into his belly, and he snaked his head under her arm for no other reason than for her touch. But then, this was Impression, and despite the astonishment of her former drudges and cooks, this was right.

* * *

San awoke with her limbs tangled beneath a golden wingspan. It took only a moment, in which she caught the dry, spicy scent of her lifemate, to recall the day's events and find a reason for the cramped muscles in her legs. It had seemed expected for her to sleep briefly before attending the feast that evening. The depression in the floor of her – _their _– new weyr wasn't adequate for both of them, but as Vorlith seemed reluctant to allow San to go further than a metre from the only individual who could hear her, the young girl had grabbed a blanket and settled next to the young queen.

Not that she minded, exactly. The very idea of sharing her silence was novel, and Sannel gloried in the sensation of not being _alone. _As Vorlith wasn't yet awake, San had a moment to reflect in the strange soft light that heralded dusk's coming. Welded into her identity, woven into her very soul, the precious creature that had made all this happen had entwined her sinuous tail around San's ankles. Even in sleep, the hatchling seemed loathe to let the young girl go. San stifled a giggle as she carefully unravelled the golden rope. On the edge of her consciousness, she could sense Vorlith's awakening mind. The young dragon wouldn't be long in following her into the twilight, then.

She blinked, suddenly aware that Vorlith's familiar presence was not the only one chafing at the edge of her mind. There were others – _many _others. Who were they?

_Good evening, little one._ The tender greeting – green Elseth, her mind supplied - was repeated by a couple of other voices, whose timbre she recognised. With a groan, she understood that the "voices" she had heard over the past few days were none other than dragons. The realisation came with a sudden, thrilling relief that she wasn't mad, mixed with a rueful regret at her own ignorance. She _knew _that some people were able to hear all dragonkind. After all, wasn't Lessa herself such a one? She answered the dragons with a gladness that wobbled with gratitude. Her silent world was no longer so empty.

The weyrling rolled onto her back and kneaded at the knots in her neck, resisting the urge to give a moan of discomfort. Away from Vorlith's body heat, the twilight air was decidedly chilly, and San shivered as she rose to get a wrap. The young hatchling's claws scraped at the empty air in front of her, and she abruptly awoke. _San!_

_Here! I'm here,_ San soothed, hurrying back to the golden creature who was lurching unsteadily to her feet. Vorlith shied away from the open windows, bereft of blinds until furniture could be removed from storage. She scrabbled away from the dying light: a melting blend of lilac and gold that was retreating with the sun. In dismay, Sannel watched her regal queenling burrowing her head into the folds of her clothing once more, broadcasting her discomfort, which was slight compared to her earlier agony. San found herself searching her lifemate's body with a mindtouch that was as thorough as it was tender. Vorlith's neat wings were folded; her trembling body was without injury or flaw; and her skull had no lesion – but her eyes…

San mused, scratching her dragon's eyeridges while her thoughts whirled. _Vorlith, your pain is gone now that you've closed your eyes._

_Yes._ Her irreverent dragonet didn't seem to think much of this revelation.

She led her golden companion towards the shadows of their inner rooms, despite the fact that Vorlith's size made it difficult. Then she crouched in front of her dragon and asked her to open her eyes. The young queen did so, her eyes coloured the wary shade of yellow. San crooned to her comfortingly, ignoring the slight pang that she could not hear her throat's vibrations. Her hands cupped the fine cheekbones. _Can you see me, love?_

Vorlith was offended, and she let it be known. _Of course I can, _she retorted, as though it would be impossible not to. Her gaze returned slowly to a whorl of blue. She angled her head slightly, and blinked lazily as she felt San's answering amusement. Her _harrumph _was echoed mentally, and San let loose a bubble of laughter.

_Sorry,_ the girl replied, not at all apologetically. Vorlith nudged her playfully, and Sannel staggered backwards, startled at the movement. With a decidedly mischievous air, her lifemate pounced, delighting in the softness of her companion's belly and pinning her clumsily to the ground.

Now _you're sorry, _the young queen guessed devilishly, and San's fervent nod as she rubbed her poor abdomen elicited a draconic bark of laughter. As a wistful look shadowed the young girl's face, Vorlith's attitude changed drastically. _I don't mind, _said the dragon fiercely. _I don't care that you can't hear that. You can hear _me_, and that's all that matters._

San's smile was sad, and her reply was achingly soft. **I**_ care, love. _Vorlith heard her make a sound in her throat, and twined herself around her lifemate as the frizzy-haired weyrling buried her head in the golden neck. The image of a tall young man flashed into her mind, and the hatchling felt the sense of betrayal in San's heart as acutely as if it were her own, although she didn't understand the emotion. _I don't even know his dragon's name! _she uttered, clearly affected by what she saw as a great oversight. Vorlith hummed, letting the vibrations rock through her lifemate's body, compelling her dry, hoarse sobs to slow. The golden dragonet rubbed her own cheek against the other's pale, freckled one, sneezing as her nose caught a whiff of San's frizzy hair.

_You smell nice,_ Vorlith murmured artlessly.

A moment later, the young queen froze. San drew back, and cocked an eyebrow. _What is it?_ she asked quizzically, trying to regain her composure. Her words were coloured with embarassment, and Vorlith sent a wave of reassurance and affection even as she gave her tense reply.

_Someone's coming. _A snatch of sound that almost translated to the tread of wherhide boots breezed through San's mind, and was gone. Before she had time to register its meaning, a lean woman entered the room. Her dark eyes were clear and sharp, and as she hesitated slightly on the threshold, San realised that it wasn't from any shyness on her part. The young girl nodded awkwardly to invite her in, getting to her feet so swiftly that she almost lost her balance. A quick glance at the woman's shoulderknots told her that this was the weyrwoman of Igen - rider of gold Baylith. Sannel racked her brains for this queenrider's name and retrieved it with a feeling of triumph. This was Nadira, the oldtimer queenrider who supported Benden Weyr's authority.

Although she was still clad in her ill-fitting robe, Sannel sketched a quick bow. Her curtsy wasn't elegant enough even with the aid of skirts, and the former Hold girl wasn't about to risk tripping on the hem in front of her superior. As she inclined her head, her mass of red curls slipped past her ears and reminded her that it had escaped its bindings during some point in her nap. The knowledge that she most likely looked as unkempt as she felt did nothing for her confidence, and she felt a rush of blood spring to her cheeks.

Nadira's scrutiny was appraising. As the weyrwoman studied her new charge, the dress again leaped to the forefront of her examination. She ignored it, thought. There were greater considerations at hand - the first being the challenge of communication.

"Can you hear me at all?" She spoke slowly, elongating her vowels and rounding the consonants. San felt a flush of frustration creep up her neck. It would be impossible to read the weyrwoman's lips if she continued to mangle the words like that.

_San asks that you speak normally, weyrwoman,_ Vorlith said, deftly placing her neck under her rider's fingers. Her tone was cool and only borderline respectful; the hatchling was aware only that the weyrwoman's entrance had added to her lifemate's consternation. San directed a grateful glance at Vorlith's decision to act as intermediary, and her attention flickered back to Nadira's slightly startled face. She quashed the smouldering resentment in her chest, and tried to concentrate. Why did most assume that she was deficient in intelligence as well as hearing? The weyrwoman repeated her question, and San shook her head, and then pointed to her mouth to show that she couldn't speak anymore either.

As for Nadira, she had seen the spark of emotion flare in the young girl's black eyes, and approved. So, the newest queenrider had spirit, did she? She gestured behind her, and a woman older than her by seven or eight Turns appeared in the doorway, her impossibly green eyes sparkling. She looked, with her straight brown hair and those distinctly coloured eyes, like a tiny, feminine version of Darrin. The resemblance rocked Sannel further still, but she held her ground. Despite her stature, this woman's presence was strongly felt, and she was in no way lost behind the large pile of materials in her arms. Behind her peeked a small, bony blue just about to squeeze through the doorway, despite the fact that he couldn't easily fit.

_Keth, behave! _San caught the woman's mildly scolding tone, and also heard her add a command to stay at the door. Keth, whose belly bulged with meat, and who exuded the air of a dragon well-pleased with both himself and his world, balked at first, but had to content himself with hovering on the threshold. San's lips quirked into a half-grin, glad to see that she wasn't the only one with a stubborn dragon.

_You can come in, if you want, _she said quietly. Keth cocked his head, and then pranced forwards, replying to his rider's raised eyebrow that _the girl asked me, so why can't I?_ He butted against the woman's arm with a manner that was both endearing and cheeky. His rider was rubbing his eyeridges almost before she knew what she was about, although she was echoing his answer out loud with a look of stunned amazement. A moment later, Keth froze, and then glanced at San with curiosity. _Is it really strange for you to hear me? _he asked, with all the naivety of a youngling. San quirked a grin, and nodded. _It's surprising, at any rate, _she replied. Her gaze flickered to the weyrwoman's face, wondering why this new woman was here. _Who is your rider, Keth?_ San queried, puzzled. _Why did Nadira want her to come up here?_

Keth paused a moment, darting a look at Vorlith, who was staring at him. _Her name's Palma, _he said proudly, and then added, _and probably because she was -_ He seemed lost for the word, and asked his lifemate. _Headwoman. _If he could have wrinkled his nose, he would have done; disapproval coloured his thoughts. _She wants to give you new clothes. Nadira doesn't have anyone else to take over Palma's role yet, so she's got to do it. _He sounded as though he were relaying a message almost word-for-word; he seemed to have only the vaguest of comprehensions of weyr hierarchy. San, torn between amusement and dismay at this hatchling's pedantic character, felt her self-discipline slip as Vorlith asked _what's wrong with your dress? I like it!_

San choked on laughter, her cheeks flaming as she tried to stop her giggles, but quickly found tears smarting in her eyes. She gulped them down. New clothes for her? But she was only a foundling, the deaf niece of the Lord Holder who had reluctantly taken her in. She had had no way of earning her keep, so her rich garments were the better-kept remnants of Fraya's extensive wardrobe. In fact, in the face of Nadira's perfect grooming, and Palma's neat, comfortable appearance, she felt no better than a drudge trying on the Hold childrens' clothes. A hand took her arm sympathetically, and she turned to see the former headwoman's face. Palma's green eyes were businesslike, but they held a softer emotion that San couldn't identify. "My husband became deaf before he died, Sannel," the older woman said quietly. Though she knew that the new queenrider couldn't hear her, Jaran had always appreciated her speaking normally and not too quickly. Palma hoped that this girl had some modicum of lip reading skill, or there really _would _be a problem. She felt relief when she saw San's eyes brighten, turning from black to a deep, rich brown, and the girl squeezed her arm gratefully.

_I'm a sentimental old wherry, Keth, _she grumbled good-naturedly as she unloaded her arms of her burden. Nadira had said nothing more since she had entered the room, but she bade them farewell before departing. Palma guessed that the weyrwoman had wanted a few quiet moments to take this new rider's gauge, untainted by others' opinions and noise. She pursed her lips and held up a pair of long trousers, tossing them towards Sannel with a belated "Heads up!" The sheepish cast of her smile belied any malice in the action, and San shed her dress with good humour. The wherhide fit well around her legs, but she would need a belt to cinch the waist, and a few minor alterations to the ends, which were too long. A comfortable green tunic followed its mate through the air, and the young girl slipped it on, unsure of whether she liked its softly clinging lines. She glanced to the untouched bed, where Palma was currently riffling through the heap of clothes. Keth was snaking his head around her hips, trying to see what it was that she was so involved in doing. He sneezed several times where dust had accumulated in folds of fabric. With a declamatory gesture, Palma held up a soft grey jerkin, decorated with embroidery. It was clearly an item of women's gather apparel, and San had to admit that she liked its snug fit. It would keep her warm, now that the air was so chilly, and the long trousers suited her far better than any dress.

Palma dusted her hands, and surveyed her critically. Yes, it was much better than that awful robe had been. These, at least, fit the girl. She was still awkward, pale and plain, but her adolescence would leave her with a fine figure, and perhaps her face might mature into an attractive sort of feature in time. Her slippers (Palma snorted, those soft excuses for boots would _have _to be replaced) would be fine for the feast, which would be starting at any moment. The elder woman's lips twitched into a smile, and then she said, "Well, are you ready? The feast shouldn't be too long, and you'll no doubt be able to leave whenever you wish, as a new weyrling." Her expression softened utterly as she was reminded that she, too, could do so. A _weyrling. _Shards, she hadn't been one of those for _years!_ Her smile faded slightly. Not a headwoman, nor a young candidate who had just Impressed. What was _she _doing, a middle-aged woman with a dragon?

A flicker of her indecision must have shown itself, for the new queen of Igen bespoke her. _San says that you are both unsure about your place in the weyr,_ Vorlith said. There was something slightly sad about her tone, but she added, _so as we're both exploring new territory, why not do so together? _Having heard her lifemate relay her message, San ducked her head, suddenly shy. But then, she _heard _Keth's delight at his rider's reaction, and looked up. Palma's narrow face was suffused with genuine amusement. Despite their contrasting ages, the pair had a mutual bond. Neither belonged, not by tradition. So they would have to make their own.

* * *

The weyr's harper was a small man, with quick, grey eyes and deft fingers. His passion for music was evident in the way he cradled his instrument, letting the rhythmic notes of the ballad shimmer softly in the air, from whence he had plucked them. Those assembled in the hall not dancing were stamping their feet, their faces alight with enjoyment. If Palma noticed that San had slipped her feet from the slippers and was resting them on the floor to feel the music's pulse, she said nothing. Her hand grasped the new queenrider of Igen's shoulder briefly, but that was all. There were no words for some things.

* * *

**Author's note**: Le gasp. A middle-aged woman Impressing? It isn't _possible!_ – or is it? Anne McCaffrey's only argument against older Candidates (aside from practical considerations – not being able to get _onto _their dragons is definitely a disadvantage) is their inability to change enough to accept a new identity. Well, as she concedes that it might be possible if the rider was _able _to change, I'd say it'll be a learning curve that'll prove very interesting. I mean to explore it as a side-plot.

If you have any other questions, or you cannot ignore your wish to express your offended sensibilities at my audacity (wink wink), please put them into a review. I answer all of them as best as I'm able. Take care until the next update!

Rachel

_PS: Dragovian Knight - your PM feature is disabled, so here's a quick thanks for your review. =) I'm trying to reply to all the reviews I get so readers know I got their feedback._

_And to Dino, I couldn't remember whether I'd replied to your review, but rather than looking like a pleb by repeating myself in email, I'll do it here. Thanks for your positive comments, and I'm glad that this is important to you. I wanted to raise people's awareness of how deaf people cope in a hearing world. Enjoy!_


	3. Baited

_Disclaimer_: -clenched teeth- I do not own any of Anne McCaffrey's marvellous literary world, and of _course_ (ahem) I don't regret not being chosen as its heir, despite the fact that the erstwhile authoress in question has never met me. I'll remain content to dabble as long as I'm able.

* * *

_I broke my egg to find you, dear-heart-mine._  
_I chose you from the others for myself._  
_I longed only for you when I no longer slept_  
_When the heat roused me_  
_And confused me_  
_Only your gaze calmed the flames within me._

_And you wonder and weep at such a miracle,_  
_When there could have been no other?_  
_Did you never feel that empty yearning_  
_When you tossed at night_  
_In hard grey light?_  
_Did you never wonder why you burned?_

_Your flame meets my ashes_  
_Your fire burns within me:_  
_One half, the other,_  
_Together, they see._

-----  
III  
-----

D'rin sat on what the weyrlings irreverently called the 'dragonback' and chafed his hands against the chill night air. In the distance, dawn was making its stately way across the sky in a grey mist against the shadows, and the slender young man was silently thankful that the discipline would soon be complete. Although there was no sign yet of another figure making its way through the dim light below, he knew that Meri would soon be yawning beside him, sharing her steaming cup of klah as she always did when he had been _recommended _for an early morning shift.

The weyrling stretched his long legs to relieve their stiffness, and stood up on the broad, sloping mound that looked, with its rust-red earth, so very like an oddly-coloured brown dragon's spine, albeit lacking in the bony ridges that would usually protrude from such a creature. Several of the others had teased him about it, saying that he had landed himself with this particular punishment so many times because he couldn't bear to be apart from his dragon without thinking about him. Although the latter sentiment was true (though he would never voice it to them), he also preferred the high embankment for its adequate isolation from the main part of the Weyr. Here, in the wee hours of the early morning, D'rin brownrider liked to think.

_Has Meri not yet arrived? _Branth's wistful voice hailed him. Their connection told the young rider that his dragon had not yet stirred from the weyr they shared with S'van and blue Droth, but that he was becoming so uncomfortable in his quickly growing hide that he was contemplating coming to find his errant lifemate rather sooner than usual. The flash of discomfort the young brown broadcasted told D'rin that the itchiness lingered on his joints today.

The weyrling felt a broad smile creep across his face. Branth was always so impatient to be _doing _before anyone else. Meri said (rather acerbically) that they were a well-matched pair, and that they were as alike as two peas in a pod, but he didn't _quite _agree. Branth provided oddly insightful comments in a careless manner, and he was as gregarious as he was impulsive, but although D'rin shared that same impulsiveness, he was not by nature a sociable person. Indeed, his fostering here had yielded only a handful of friends, but they seemed (mostly) to recognise that his reluctance to join in the revelling at feasts did not come from an unfriendly disposition, but rather an unease in dealing with his peers. His gravity was not predisposed to quick laughter, but when it came it lit his eyes up in a way that showed him to be a rather handsome young man.

He mused on the previous day. His quick anger at that bronzerider's lewd comment had cooled somewhat in the numbing bite of night, but he couldn't bring himself to regret his actions. R'nik was much heavier-set than him, and perhaps landing him such a facer hadn't been wise, but the quickness of the act had caught the other weyrling off-guard. He had been too preoccupied with swearing thickly as he nursed his split lip that one of the wingleaders had broken them apart before he could make his own response. Which would have most likely been rather more damaging than the blow that slender D'rin had served him.

The anger still smouldered at the thought that there could be others who harboured the same thoughts about his sister, although they none of them would have guessed at the relationship. He hadn't broadcast the fact, and Sannel had been as studious in avoiding him as he had her. Thankfully, there was no reason (not really) for a mere brownrider to meet a junior queenrider at all unless he was summoned.

After all, San was being trained by Nadira as tradition dictated, and he took his schooling from Igen's Weyrlingmaster with all the others. And as he rarely attended feasts until the dancing began, preferring instead to take his meal and eat it alone with his dragon, he hadn't glimpsed his little sister more than twice in the ten sevendays since the Hatching.

So why, he asked himself, had he been so quick to defend her when that dimglow had made that sharding comment? His sense of duty had always been earnest, but to be enraged on the behalf of one whom he had felt betrayed by?

_We choose who we want, _Branth suddenly said, the words echoing as a rumble through his whirling thoughts. _I could not have chosen any other than you that day. You don't wish for a bronze, do you?_

_Of course not! _His vehement response merely elicited a reprehensible smugness in his friend.

_I know that. _D'rin felt his brown's rumble of amusement although he couldn't hear it, with the distance between them. _But why should it be any different for Vorlith? She chose whom she wanted. _

_It's not quite the same, Branth, _D'rin sighed, his brow furrowed as he shifted to try and keep warm. The warmth of his wherhide jacket had been leeched away by so many hours in the cold, and he could barely feel his toes as he wriggled them within their boots. Although he could feel Branth's puzzlement at how it could possibly differ, he tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he had been wrong by saying more firmly than he felt, _this is San. It's not the same at all._

Lying to someone who knew everything about you wasn't wise. Branth snorted, only half-amused, although there was a compassionate tone to his words that belied their rebuke. _Then why did you flare up so much at that boy if you don't believe that I'm right?_

* * *

Oiling and washing. That was all that Sannel seemed to be doing at the moment, and she was thankful for it. All too soon she would begin learning the weyr's politics and its history, things that both required a way of communicating, and the one-handed language she and Palma had cobbled together over the last few sevendays (single-handed because the older woman always seemed to be carrying something) was rudimentary at best. She still relied on reading lips and the dragons for almost everything.

Right now, Sannel was standing up to her knees in the shallows of the Weyr's lake, shivering in the predawn chill. The cold seeped into her bones despite the thin sheen of sweat that stretched over her skin as she laboured over Vorlith's body. Her golden lifemate yawned, her jaws opening in a large grin as San stood tiptoe on her foreleg to reach her withers. The little queen had grown enormously in ten sevendays, her covering of yellow birth gold soon developing to a deep, almost amber hue. She was undeniably a queen despite her tawny hide, with lighter gold fanning across the whole with a seeming disregard for wing or joint.

They had seen so many healers that even Vorlith's amusement at their curiosity had abated, soon settling into a sharp irritation at what she called _their prodding about. _By now, it was common knowledge at Igen that the weyr's new queenrider was deaf, and the common rumour was that something was also wrong with the young queen as well. Thankfully, they didn't yet know how right they were, although Sannel stoutly denied the conclusion that her lifemate would be limited in her usefulness... the unspoken assent sounding clear. _Like herself. _

_She'll be the best queen Pern has ever seen! _she had exclaimed hotly, and when Vorlith relayed her message with a flash of proud amber whirling in her gaze, Master Nolson sniffed and shrugged his shoulders. He was reputed to be the most knowledgeable regarding draconic anatomy, but Vorlith's photosensitive eyes perplexed him. He had used many words that Sannel was not familiar with, including _genetic mutation _and _possible congenital disease_, but despite their vernacular appearance the diagnosis pointed to the same thing: there shouldn't be such a dragon as Vorlith.

And perversely, this gangly excuse for a girl refused to acknowledge that neither she nor her disabled queen would be able to contribute to weyr life. "It would be better," he murmured to the Weyrleader, "if they were sent to a less central location." He paused, eyes hesitating briefly on the troublesome pair as they stood defiantly before him, and turned towards the weyrleaders so that his words were directed only at them. "I hear that High Reaches has only the ageing senior queen now, after the loss of..." Master Nolson trailed off, delicately leaving the sentence unfinished.

He had heard that Igen's Weyrwoman was an understanding individual, but there was a blaze of emotion in her eyes as she bade him a crisp farewell. "F'ney will accompany you back to your Crafthall, Master. I'm sure you have matters of business to attend to." She fell silent, as though loathe to continue. "I - thank you for your time." She gave a tight smile as the Healer bestowed a stiff nod on her, and G'narish proceeded to show him out of the young queenrider's quarters. His grave countenance betrayed none of his displeasure, although Nadira knew her weyrmate well enough that they would talk about this at a later date.

Nadira knew she should have been more polite, but even though Master Healer Nolson had come at night as per requested, she had been hard-pressed to keep hold of her temper when he spoke of Collene. As if it were common drudge gossip... which it probably was. She sighed, and her eyes flickered to where Vorlith had twined her neck around the girl, rumbling anxiously. Sannel was stroking soothing fingers across her large lifemate's eyeridges, and in finding a near-flaking patch of hide, asked her queen to say that they would like to go down to the lake. _San asks if we are allowed to go to the lake, _Vorlith had conveyed obligingly.

Nadira had nodded abruptly, despite the early hour. After all, the queen could not be expected to bathe in broad daylight with her eyes closed, could she? Besides, she had much to think about. _Baylith, love, will you give Vorlith the coordinates? _She _felt_ her dragon do so, and a moment later Vorlith had disentangled herself and disappeared in a blink of bitter cold. Sannel descended through the corridors to the large expanse of water, where her dragon had been waiting, and now she attended to soothing her dragon's discomfort with cool water, to be followed by a rigorous oiling.

The dim light was a welcoming balm to the sensitive eyes that had been tested so thoroughly, and Vorlith released a sigh of contentment as San rubbed along her proud head, carefully avoiding those glowing orbs with the lather. A moment later, the incorrigible creature had nudged her lifemate none-too-gently off her leg, snorting in amusement as the girl came gasping from the water. She stood, words failing her, her mouth agape.

_Why - you, you -_

Before she could organise her thoughts, Vorlith drenched her with another wave of freezing water as she surged into the deeper recesses of the lake to rinse. As she swam back, her bark of laughter echoed through San's mind clearly. _You were lost in thought, _the dragon explained, _and the memories were making you sad. _She poked her gently in the belly with a claw. _We must not allow the silly fat man to upset us. _It was clear that the young queen was trying to convince herself as well as her lifemate, and Sannel softened immediately. She reached her arms around as much of the deep chest as she could, and said meekly,

_Of course we shouldn't, my love. _Vorlith caught the humour lurking in her reply, and snorted, huffing warm breath over the shivering girl.

_You should oil me now, _she announced. _It will keep you warm until you can have a bath._ She didn't even flinch at Sannel's playful swat as her lifemate declared gruffly that it was her fault she was soaked in the first place, and wouldn't it be her fault if she shivered to death? But this hypothesis alarmed her young queen so much that she hastily retracted it, soothingly repeating that of course she didn't mean such a thing, and that she wasn't going anywhere until she had oiled her wayward lifemate. She proceeded to make good on her promise, and by the time the sun was rising Vorlith fairly gleamed.

_Now, don't you go getting yourself dirty when you feed, _she said mock-solemnly, and the queen rustled her wings and cocked her head as though saying _don't you trust me? _San snorted, and pictured the feeding grounds for her young lifemate. The ensuing blast of cold air reminded her of how wet she still was, regardless of how warm the oiling had made her again. Shaking her head at her irredeemable queen's antics, San made her way towards their weyr, gleefully anticipating a nice, hot bath. By the time she was halfway there she was so consumed by this idea that she walked blindly into a burly figure coming the other way.

R'nik had still been stewing as he walked towards the Hall, but the unexpected collision made anger flare more quickly than it would have done had he been less preoccupied. "Watch where you're going!" he snapped in his assailant's direction, before recognising that he wasn't speaking to a clumsy weyrling lad ( as he had supposed by the person's height), but the newest queenrider of Igen. Black eyes that had just been shocked out of their reverie blinked, and then focussed on his face. He noted her blue-tinged lips, and the way that her drenched apparel left little to the imagination. His wayward gaze brought colour to her pale cheeks, but her chin tilted stubbornly.

Sannel was embarassed. She supposed the swarthy young man in front of her was good-looking despite his split lip, and even if he hadn't been, to look like a drenched wherry in front of anyone was not a pleasant scenario. Her expression turned penitent, and she bespoke his dragon, at a loss of what else to do.

_Tagarth, I'm sorry to wake you, but could you please tell your rider that I apologise? I wasn't looking where I was going. _She heard him convey her message and almost sagged with relief, seeing the bronzerider's face turn blank as the dragon did so. His expression was incredulous.

"You can speak to Tagarth?" he demanded, forgetting for an instant that this particular girl was deaf. Relieved that he was speaking at a normal pace, Sannel nodded shyly. She was only slightly dismayed when he stepped back, clearly bemused and rather surprised. He asked something else, which was clear by the questioning tilt to his brows, but he had automatically slowed his speech on recalling her disability. How frustrating this was! Trying to ignore her chattering teeth, she gestured to him, but on remembering that he couldn't understand, resorted to asking his dragon again.

_R'nik, the queenrider wishes you to speak at a normal speed, _Tagarth relayed sleepily, although all too clearly broadcasting the pleasure he felt at being addressed by Sannel. Before he could answer, though, a grim figure had inserted himself between them. His back was as familiar to Sannel as his face would have been had he looked at her, but D'rin studiously kept his eyes averted from his sister's face and on R'nik's instead. His gaze was black with fury, but he had no intention of being controlled by it again.

"Leave," he growled. He saw R'nik glance between them, and cursed the fact that their resemblance was such that none could miss it when they stood next to each other, despite their different colourings. A curious smile curled the bronzerider's thin lips, but he retreated, his eyes flickering once more to Sannel's shivering body. He bowed mockingly, and left. As soon as the broad-shouldered figure had disappeared, D'rin strode away without so much as a backward glance at the mind-numbed queenrider looking at him.

San was left standing in the middle of the corridor, her frozen limbs forgotten. What had just occurred?

* * *

Author's Note: I'm so sorry I took so long to update! You're all so patient, so thanks for your time. I really do appreciate all the feedback I get. After all, that's why I publish on this site!

Hope you enjoyed this new chapter. It's probably the one I've most enjoyed writing so far, so I hope it's the same for you.

Rachel


	4. Brothers

_Disclaimer: _I own nothing pertaining to this feast of literary ingenuity (however, I really don't care for Todd McCaffrey's work, so he doesn't count). However, I rather like to play in it.

* * *

_They tell me blood runs thick in brothers.  
I wonder if that's true.  
Does it spill thinner in those whose  
Noble blood runs blue?_

_----  
IV  
_----

Helana would not lower herself to utter her displeasure, having, like many other Hold-bred women, the firm notion that such ill-mannered displays were far beneath her station in life. However, her mate was not so restrained. Despite his talent in Holding, his equable manner in dealing with all matters of business, and his passion for Fishing, Ranrel was at a loss of how to behave where his wards were concerned. Although they had come under his protection more than a Turn ago and he had fathered a girl who was now sixteen Turns, he still laboured under the misapprehension that children _understood_ measures taken for their own good. In fact, so firmly did he believe this that he had allowed Darrin – _D'rin_ – to stand as Candidate on the Sands, vaguely believing that the boy would refuse Impression out of a well-bred sense of duty.

The Lady Holder of Tillek brooded. It was eminently clear what this delusion had cost them. Although Ranrel had never voiced his disappointment at not fathering a son, the wound had continued to linger painfully in her heart, stifled by ingrained beliefs that silence upon matters such as this had its own recompense. Helana was an able Holder's wife. She had thrown herself into managing the Hold's domestic affairs with quiet zeal at the beginning of their Turns together, and had never once faltered in her duty in that respect. Her first pregnancy had been only months after the couple's espousal, and it had progressed with unheard of ease, producing two healthy girls. No son appeared. It was as though, having been so fruitful in the beginning, her womb had closed. The girls, of which only one survived past infancy, were named Fraya and Drina after their respective grandmothers. No one could have faulted Ranrel's treatment of his surviving daughter. He was not dismissive, but his spoiling of their only child had been the whim of a dutiful sire, not of an indulgent father. It would have been easier to bear, thought Helana savagely, had he not been so obnoxiously proud of his niece. A niece, whose father he had quarrelled with so gravely, at that!

No doubt the girl herself did not remember the occasion where she had first come to her uncle's notice, but the Lady Holder did. Although the weather had been fine, Ranrel had remained in his study, attending to a business proposition with his brother. None of the three brothers had amended their differences since Ranrel's election to Lord Holder, but her husband had been gifted with enough common sense to realise that a fraternal feud was hardly what his sorely neglected lands required. An uneasy truce had been born between the three, although it was somewhat easier between the young Lord Holder and Terentel. The older man tended to bring his young daughter with him whenever he came to talk to his brother, and it had always been clear that he adored her - though Ranrel had never understood why until that particular afternoon.

They were interrupted by a high, insistent voice that had an unmistakeably imperious tone. On investigating, Ranrel had come upon a tiny child of about four Turns who, by means unknown, had managed to mount his own personal runner. The nervous, bony beast moved nary a muscle while his niece hotly denied the runnerman's broad claims that she was too young to ride such a "puriless mount". Her cries of 'I _tan!_' had been indulged by the swarthy man, but by the time the Lord Holder arrived on the scene he found a much amused crowd watching as she berated the hapless individual in a manner which left him sweating under her remonstrance. Terentel's chuckle behind him recalled him from his astonishment, and although the pair left soon afterwards, Ranrel had never forgotten the scene, which he recounted with some animation to his spouse. As Fraya had done nothing quite so startling, Helana forebore to tell him that their daughter's lessons with Harper Tellon promised to yield a rather lovely little voice. But she was hurt, that he could be so animated about another man's child, and not his own rather quiet offspring.

Then had been the argument, which did not bring any of Terentel's kin back to Tillek for almost nine Turns. Terentel had been returning from the main Gather at Fort Hold, a festival which lasted more than a sevenday, and of which the journey to reach it was of similar duration. It wasn't known why the Holder's placid wagonbeast started, or how the family's dray came to be shattered at the bottom of a cliff's steep incline, but it was mainly assumed that a moment of inattention on the treacherous path had been their downfall... quite literally. The bodies of Terentel and his woman had been found two days later, with their only daughter clearly incoherent with both grief and a severe blow to the head which had left her quite insensible. She would claim, later, that she had no recollection of the accident, or how she came to be with _them _rather than with her foster-mother. Most accepted the explanation, convinced inwardly that the girl had lost her sense along with her hearing. The dolphins, of whom Ranrel had the greatest respect since Master Dolphineer Readis had come to reside in the Fishcraft Hall at Tillek, had not been able to sense what blocked her hearing, but as Healer Nollis had stated, their abilities were not topographical. Darrin, who had been sent to foster almost two Turns before at Igen, heard of his parents' deaths with surprising equanimity, but his sister's disability disturbed him quite unnecessarily.

Ranrel could only attribute the fervour with which he applied himself to helping the girl communicate to brotherly affection, if somewhat misguided. The child understood directions well enough if you spoke clearly and at a normal pace, and written instruction sufficed if that did not work. He anticipated her arrival at Tillek with the keenness that only an old memory can produce, but the long-limbed, awkward girl who became his ward seemed to bear no resemblance to that spirited child. In fact, she was quieter than his beautiful, petite daughter, who was absorbed in her music and anxiously awaiting his approval for her to apprentice at the Harper Hall. Fraya's burning ambition was only exacerbated when she learned that her awkward cousin had been learning her tuning at the famed Hall for almost three Turns.

It would be unnecessarily cruel to remind the girl daily of what she had lost, and so Fraya was sent to the Harper Hall without further delay, before her father's _"unfortunate" _niece arrived_._ She and Sannel had never yet met. However, what Ranrel had not anticipated was Helana's resentment at being required to look after another man's child. He assumed she was glad for the company in the absence of her daughter, and as she never voiced her irritation, he continued to believe it. If Sannel's plain features looked at their most morose after an audience with his mate, he attributed it to the recent loss of her family, and missing the company of her brother. He encouraged her to send letters, but when he asked indulgently after the last letter she had received from Darrin, she would bite her lip and pretend she hadn't heard. He was not to know that when she wrote to her brother, the runners were inevitably occupied with more important tasks. And if he sighted her darning her clothes, he supposed that Helana was helping her to improve on Hold tasks.

Helana knew his misguided thinking, and felt no compunction to correct him. She had struggled to maintain her normal composure in the daily reminder that Darrin, and not one of her own offspring, had been chosen as Ranrel's heir. Her nephew's sister seemed to have no redeeming qualities, being neither beautiful like her own daughter, nor able to gossip about Hold matters. It was all too easy to offer her a chilly reception, and thenceforth to ensure that they spent only the barest amount of time in each other's company by adding to the breach between them. Sannel, whose bewilderment at the recent events in her young life had afforded her the hope that her aunt would be a maternal individual, was quickly relieved of the notion of such a relationship. Helana had very definite qualities in mind for any individual admitted into her confidence, and her awkward niece possessed none of them.

Although she exulted at Darrin's - D'rin's - ineligibility for inheritance, Helana knew some of her mate's anxieties on the matter, and shared them. For as awful as it had been to suffer Darrin as heir, it would be infinitely worse if Blesserel's line replaced their own upon Ranrel's death. The man's insufferable eldest son lived with unfortunate similarities to his sire's dissident youth, and as Blesserel had not mended his ways yet, it was not uncommon for her to believe that neither would his seed. His four other lusty sons were not much better, so this dilemma could - and she was only being pragmatic in examining the possibilities, she told herself - result in a feud that would scar the prosperous Hold and Hall for generations. Blue Drosk had been busy flitting in and out of Tillek for the past Turn as Ranrel sought to disinherit the only near males who could lay claim to the Hold, and although she disliked such nervous, fluttery creatures as firelizards were, she appreciated the necessity.

It wouldn't do, not at all. It was with decisiveness that Helana took up the pen and began to write. When she had sprinkled some of her personal scented sand over the missive to dry the ink, there was a moment of uncertainty as she sought to convince herself of her actions' worth. Her fingers folded the paper slowly - some new variety by the Master Craftsman, no doubt - but the soft blue wax she imprinted with her signet ring left no doubt that it was her own work. She decided that to summon Wendel would draw unnecessary attention to the deed, and so headed towards the runnerstalls with her usual measured pace.

Minutes later, a small, swift runnerbeast was seen, heading south.

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I'm so sorry this took so long. Exams are my life at the moment. Thank you all for your continued patience! - the next chapter is already drafted, and I just need to proof-read it. Please leave a comment on how you like this - I know there's no p.o.v with Sannel or Palma this chapter, but I felt this was a necessary bit of background that needed to be told. =P I enjoyed writing it, actually, although I had trouble with getting it to flow.

Much love,  
Rachel


	5. Bitter

Disclaimer: I'm writing _on a fanfiction site here_. Does it strike no one as odd that if Pern belonged to me I would publish my ideas here instead of popping down to a publishing firm and setting it as a concrete part of my world? I hope that's a sufficient disclaimer, readers. =)

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Elder, were I to tell thee true,  
That I saw a dragon clad in blue,  
Wouldst thou believe me?

_Youth, thine eyes speak truth,  
__Let thy worried head be soothed.  
__Why wouldst thou deceive me?_

Elder, in the early morn I saw  
The tiny wings, the smaller jaw  
Of a creature that did _soar  
_Above my head, before it blinked  
Into a _darker_ cold that winked  
Of secrets from beyond the brink.

"This _dragon_, no longer than mine arm."

_Youth, thy tongue wags long.  
__Thou speaks of myth and song.  
__No creature such as this exists._

Elder, I am not sure myself,  
For though I sat long upon the shelf,  
It vanished into morning mists.

_Youth, why dost thou carry on?  
__Cease thy prattle: 'tis overlong.  
__Thy youth astounds me._

Elder, I do not linger still,  
Upon that rocky, sandy sill,  
I merely tell what I've seen.

~ A Teaching Ballad, c.2518

----  
**V**  
----

The dim light allowed only the faintest idea of shape in the pre-dawn kitchens, but perhaps that was fortunate. Palma did not wish to be disturbed, and it would be a full hour before the drudges ventured into the kitchens to revitalise the great fires that had been banked for the night. As the weather had been unusually balmy, the practice had been maintained throughout much of the past half-Turn, but soon the fires which lent their heat to much of the main Weyr through a series of pipes would become essential for the winter, and a drudge would be posted throughout the night to keep the flames alive.

The Northern hemisphere was not kind in her coldest months. Those who did not own one of the heating units so ingenuously crafted by Pern's few engineers (and they were many) felt her chill to the marrow. The earth became hard and unkind, and hoards of grain and other necessary fruits of harvest could easily spoil in a quick frost. All this and more Palma instinctively knew, for just as her hands were an extension of her body, so the Weyr and all its matters had been integral in her identity. She had spent the better part of her life involved in its affairs, and the abrupt loss of it had borne upon her quickly in the ebbing euphoria of Impression.

She could not regret her bond with the infamous character lying sprawled across the floor of their weyr. Keth, who spanned a bare ten feet at three months' growth, was not unaware of how far he was dwarfed by his eggmates. He had not hatched last of the clutch, nor had he been smallest at their birth - but although he was well-proportioned, his build was delicate. Palma kept him so well-cleaned and oiled that one of her former fosterlings had declared she must have scrubbed his hide away, her eyes alight with humour. As Palma was known for her meticulous inspection of flagstones and hearth once any individual proclaimed them finished, the comment, made in careless jest, somehow took firm root in the minds of those jealous that a Headwoman could Impress a fighting dragon. Suddenly, where her rigid attention to detail had once had her known as the best Headwoman of all the Northern Weyrs, she was now stigmatised as cosseting, over-anxious, and fussy.

Palma's lively sense of humour had allowed her to withstand the first sly comments. Her common sense told her that they could not last with proof to the contrary. However, when K'min had drawn her aside the day before to discover whether there were truth to the rumours, she had been angry. It had taken a rather rare spurt of common sense on Keth's part to remind her that the Wingleader wasn't the cause of such falsehoods. She had replied to his questions with an attempt at her usual wry manner. Later, the young dragon had headed towards the lake, to practise diving into its deepest waters and holding their breath. As Keth was fond of spiralling to a lofty height before snapping in his wings and cannoning into the depths, the former Headwoman adjured him to take care. _Wouldn't want you injuring yourself, love. _It was just a comment tacked onto the end of their conversation together, but the young blue snapped back with an unusual bite to his words.

_I'm not a hatchling! _As he had abruptly turned away and disappeared in a blast of cold air, following the coordinates of the older ones, Palma was left speechless. Her indignation had quickly turned to a frank examination of her own actions, anxiously cataloguing her manner towards the individual who understood her most. It was why she found herself in the one place whose busy atmosphere had always afforded her a kind of peace. In the odd calm as dawn came and went, she found that it did not give her the same tranquility it had always done. Had she, perhaps, treated Keth like the fosterlings, with their small worries and complaints? She recoiled from the thought. Palma Headwoman, cosset any person of sound mind? Pah. It did not bear thinking of. And yet, she could not deny that she worried for her precocious dragon. Despite his evident delight in flying, she (and many others) worried that he would never be sturdy enough to bear a rider, and Keth was already anticipating the day they would experience it together.

_You will like lake-diving, _he had commented in his impulsive way, his hide ablaze and brilliant from the cold of the lake's waters. He glanced at her sideways from anxious, whirling eyes, and Palma blurted that she knew he wasn't a hatchling anymore. She knew it, but she also wished that it was easy to ignore the niggling hurt that she could not be efficient and omniscient in their bond. Perhaps she had expected it to develop with no hitch. After all, their Impression was based on an unconditional love. It seemed ridiculous, and even laughable, that this could not just be sufficient - that one had to work as hard in this peculiar relationship as with other humans.

Hands that knew instinctively where each utensil lived came to life. The drudge that entered a bare twenty minutes later was astonished to find his former mistress bending over one of the numerous hearths, occupied in decanting a measure of fresh broth into a beaker. Even more astonishing, perhaps, was the combination of herbs that had been blended to make the unappetising concoction. Gurril couldn't know it, but the lovage on the table was not just useful for providing a sharp, tangy flavour when used in cooking, but provided a soothing relief for coughs. Spongy fellis ground to a paste induced a calming sleep, and the tarragon leaves and stems steeped in the brew encouraged appetite and aided digestion. For the patient Palma had in mind, it was perfect. She cleaned her working area efficiently, and by the time the bemused drudge had finished stoking the rest of the kitchen fires, Palma had disappeared, bearing the beaker towards a certain junior queenrider's weyr.

_Vorlith is never going to forgive me, _San told Palma, shading the sign that meant her beloved dragon with the fondness that accompanied the statement. Her puffy eyes peeked through her lashes. _I promised that I wouldn't get a cold from that dunking in the lake, and I didn't keep my promise. _She gestured helplessly at herself, swaddled in thick furs and cupping a steaming cup of the strong-tasting brew Palma had made. It left a bitter taste lingering on her tongue, but already the congestion in her lungs was being eased. Vorlith looked on anxiously, crooning her remorse at the state of her rider.

As it was clear to anyone with half an eye that Sannel wouldn't recover well as long as she was trying to cajole her lifemate out of her evident distress, Palma decided to intervene. It was simple to cast aside her own worries for the time being, and let such matters rest as long as she had something to _do. _As the former Headwoman interjected her opinion that Sannel was unlikely to die from a mere headcold, shook out the furs, and gave the young queen of Igen a reassuring pat, she gave a small sigh of relief that she was of _some_ use, however slight. For her part, San was glad that Palma was as brusquely kind as ever, and gave into a healing sleep.

* * *

Author's note: The poem at the top _is_ mine, but I wanted this part to reflect a little more of Pern's history and largely pharmaceutical culture, I though it appropriate. I know that this chapter isn't as long as some others I have written, but I said I would explore this sub-plot, and it's one of the parts I enjoy writing most about. I know there are numerous things I could improve on - so tell me of them!

I also must apologise that it's been so long since I updated. Mostly, I'm drowning under revision and exams, and despite my best intentions, I'm not so organised that I can churn out chapters quickly. Hope that this was worth the wait!

Much love,  
Rachel


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